On approach, the sunny beams enveloped an unvarnished door, one born in evergreen forests yonder. My hand raised, fingers tight-tucked, breath catching in my chest, I rapped and rapped again. My heart raced. My brain fizzed. Then, it opened to reveal her sweet sesame eyes; in those orbs I once lived and died. More yet in time, with love, I pray to be reborn. For they are my kindling and crucible; into them this lost phoenix submits. Come flame. Come ash. With a willing heart, I am home to stay.
New-night black was the bicycle, smugly shadow ensconced. Its spokes whispered secrets into a discreet wind. Strain as they might, the words slipped ears grasp, dissipating as easily as an early fog. Tree boughs stooped lower, vainly attempting an eavesdropping. Moles' ears did unplug. Even beetles paused their scurry. Owls, heads askew, puzzled. For all knew the wind was a messenger, a keeper of the code, an encryptor for the fairy folk. And, upon that enchanted thing did ride such a mage, a girl of The Velvet Cloak. Yet should her metal steed be stolen, or otherwise half-inched, a cold dead thing it would be. Magic, you see, is a personal friend, a sense of love from beyond the mortal veil - and this girl was their most treasured one.
Each raindrop was a butterfly, a butterfly of aqua-flight, of aqua-grace and sweetly smudged transparency. My sight they did fill with more beauty than any mortal heart can dream, than any mortal heart has a right to behold. Yet, in a docile daydream, in a poet's gentle moment, I did. I saw. I grew. Those water-motes, so cool and fine, were a gift. As light gave each a rainbow hue, as wind swept each into an aeronautic ballet, flowers scented each as lovely as rose water. And so, arms wide, palms to the cloud cosseted sky, I became their awaiting blossom.
Summer is a song, a most hearty serenade. Its music is written in blossom quavers, in busy honey bees. Then, for joy, of blessings-sake, comes the sweet carol of the birds. How I love them, this winged choir, chirping their dreams to listening ears: be they yours, be they mine, be they rabbit, mouse or shrew. And, should a light rain per-chance come by with its hither and thither watering, all the better, all the greener, all the gayer still! When August yawns into September, and September bows to Autumn-tide, these memories I’ll treasure as God’s own poetry.
Autumnal rain was summer's envelope, sealing her safely in until her time returned. Do not open until mid June sings. Do not open until mid June stretches her wings. Quenched forest earth opened wide brown arms. Quenched trees took their fill. Fish swam in liberated arcs, sensing the cleaner flow. Though cooler were the promised days, announced by the glossy reds and golds above, the drumming of the raindrops was heart-music far and wide.
Pavement-cracks flower-grinned beneath a blue sky, their shadows lightly dancing. Birdsong was maypole ribbons. Even the tree canopies did giggle. Dogs greeted in their wagging frenzy. Cats dozed in sunlit pools. Traffic kept its beach-wave percussion. Schools emptied. Playgrounds filled. Garden parties began, barbecues alight, aromas wafting. Come one, come all. Summer in the city had arrived.